


Night of the Hunter

by Froggy_Horntail



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Choking, Comtesse Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, Cultist Tekhartha Zenyatta, Demon Hanzo Shimada, F/M, Overwatch Halloween Terror, Swordsman Genji Shimada, Vampire Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, and Genji and Zenyatta are catty bitches to everyone, in which Hanzo and Widow are terribly murderous and pretty, special thanks to Baguette for being my go-to source of unbutchered French, venomous arrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 09:36:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18427880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggy_Horntail/pseuds/Froggy_Horntail
Summary: The Countess LaCroix has held the land neighboring Adlersbrunn in terror for centuries now. Neither man nor beast can slake her unending hunts and thirst for blood.The people are desperate to put an end to her and free themselves from under her reign before her next one. And desperate times call for desperate measures.But as the old saying goes - be careful what you wish for…





	Night of the Hunter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AstralOmega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstralOmega/gifts), [piggywrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggywrites/gifts).



> HAPPY HALLOWEEN TERROR SIX MONTHS EARLY, MY FELLOW SINNERS! I actually kicked around this idea last year, started writing it up, fell into the Gamer Depression™, then came back to writing to try and get out of the Gamer Depression™ and now here we are. I don't know what it is about late March/early April that makes me want to write inappropriate seasonal fics, this happened with Fallout, too.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the Venomous Arrow duo doing what they do best: being terrible murderous bitches, *together.*

When the deranged Dr. Junkenstein and his accursed allies had finally been put to rest by a group of wanderers recruited by the lord of the Adlersbrunn, the people of that region were finally able to rest easy; knowing they were free of the maddened scientist and the terrors he’d attempted to unleash upon them during the nightmare that would later become known as the Endless Night.

For those of the nearby locale of Annecy, however...their nightmares saw no sign of ceasing.

The lakeside Chateau Guillard had been a beautifully picturesque place in its prime; the seat of power for one of the most influential dynasties of France. But in recent decades it had fallen into disrepair as the family’s power waned; until none of the Guillard line were left.

None, that is, except one.

Within the aged stone walls of the Chateau, snarling hunting trophies hung from every wall and stood in every corner - many of the beasts in far better condition than the tattered tapestries and splintered furniture around them.

And in the banquet hall, cold yellow eyes sat at the head of the grand table and surveyed a man strapped to its scarred wood; beaten and battered and wildly struggling against his bonds.

Her latest catch.

“Please! Please, Countess, have mercy!”

The Countess takes a moment to swirl the wine in the glass she’s holding in one hand, taking a drink and shooting the desperate man a wicked smirk over the rim.

“You desire mercy? Then give me a good reason to grant it, then.”

The man writhes, tears starting to streak through the dirt and dried blood on his face as his voice cracks.

“I-...I have a family! Children! Please, Countess, they’re all I have, they need me! Take pity...”

She takes another drink, peering briefly into her now emptied glass before she rises slowly and leisurely from her seat. Her booted footsteps echo eerily on the flagstone floor as she steps around to take the man’s face in her hands, almost tenderly.

From the position he’s in, his head hangs down over the edge of the table, his pale neck exposed and Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard, eyes shining fearfully.

 _“Please_...who will provide for them if I am gone?”

She leans in close to whisper, and only too late does he then see the glint of her sharpened teeth.

“Ask the others. They all had families too.”

A serpent’s strike with those fangs is all it takes to have his throat slashed open - and with hardly a beat she holds the glass beneath the dying man to fill it, watching the light fade from his eyes as she does.

He gurgles his last just as her glass is filled; the gushing stream of red dying down to a mere trickle that puddles on the stone flags.

She smiles serenely as she drinks deep of the blood. Normally she would not be so wasteful, but this was a mere appetizer for the feast that was to come.

Outside, the moon rose above the quiet lake; fat and round and nearly full.

In just a few days, the blood moon would rise.

And she would make sure it lived up to its name.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

The wandering duo always put the townsfolk on edge.

The two of them - a monk and a swordsman - tended to stay out on the outskirts of the town; arriving and departing with no real warning or schedule and for reasons known only to them. When they *did* need to interact with the populace, it was usually the swordsman who dealt with the locals; hiding his scarred face under hat and mask as he came to obtain whatever supplies they needed.

The monk was a machine, not unlike the creations of Dr. Junkenstein that had wreaked havoc on their neighbors not too long ago, which already drew plenty of suspicion...but as to who his creator was, no one could say.

Certainly it did not look like any others they’d seen come out of the maddened scientist’s workshop. Not just another mindlessly deranged clockwork, but something...otherworldly. A shrouded automaton with curious chains and manacles etched with runes no one could identify, numerous eyes all over its metallic body, and mechanical tentacles tipping its limbs and sprouting from what one would consider its face.

As to who or… _what_ he worshipped (for a monk must worship something, shouldn’t they?), he was always quite cagey in that regard.

Whenever he was asked, he would only chuckle, those many unsettling eyes twitching.

_“Existence is mysterious, isn’t it?”_

Now the monk’s apprentice; a swordsman from the far east; at least he was human.

...Mostly.

Those who had chanced a proper look would see that beneath the robe and sedge hat he sported was not so much a man as a mass of scars, bandages, and what looked like prosthetics - ones far more advanced than they should have been.

Which once more only raised the question of who had crafted them, for again, they looked nothing like those that Junkenstein had been known for.

Those who had some medicinal knowledge claimed no man should be able to survive such damage, if all those injuries were taken into account, but...he obviously had, somehow.

They did know this, though - the swordsman’s scars were not the result of some great battle, but a terrible betrayal. Stories abounded of a powerful dynasty in the east that had been ripped apart by the death of the younger brother at the elder heir’s own hand.

And the swordsman...bore quite an interesting resemblance to the supposedly deceased brother...

No one dared asked how any of this was possible - if the stories were even true - for what if his survival came at the cost of allying with the same mysterious and sinister forces that his master worshipped?

But on this night, this close to the blood moon, when the prayers of the townsfolk had not been answered yet...dark condemnation was the least of their problems.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

Even with the people’s desperation, it had still taken a lot of convincing to get even the bravest of their number to willingly approach the camp on the hillside just outside of town.

When they did, they found both sitting around a simple fire - the mysterious monk seemingly in deep meditation; the stern swordsman sharpening his blade.

One man - a short tinker and clockworker renowned for both his mechanical skills and propensity for producing children to help him in his shop - finally broke from the crowd.

“We have heard much about you two…”

Neither spoke. Didn’t even acknowledge the small group’s presence at all, in fact.

The man decided to try and tell them of the people’s plight. No answer wasn’t technically a no, after all.

He told them of the Countess’ hunts where she felled both man and beast to prey upon them. The coming blood moon, when she would at her strongest and most ruthless to boot. The dire situation it put the people of Annecy in - those who weren’t taken by her directly often fled the region in fear, and it was falling into desperate straits for those who stayed as resources were becoming more and more scarce without living hands to cultivate them.

Yet there was still no response as horror after horror was recounted.

The tinker shifted a bit awkwardly, and a few of the others in the group murmured nervously among themselves. Had all those stories about the mysterious pair been just that? Stories? Would they even find help here at all?

_“A very grim situation you find yourselves in.”_

The monk was the one who finally broke the silence as he suddenly broke his meditative contemplation to lean in closer. A finger thoughtfully stroking one of the curious tentacles sprouting from his face.

The man was startled by the machine’s immediate response, and tries to cover it by fiddling slightly with the hem of his work apron. “Ah...yes...we just don’t know what to do. But if our neighbors were able to repel the terror of Dr. Junkenstein and his abominations, perhaps we too can be rid of our own monsters.”

“And you believe that we are but mere wandering mercenaries, sent to put down your dogs for meager pay?” The swordsman joined in at that point; pointing his sword in the tinker’s direction, and a few people shied back a little at his vicious words.

It could have been a trick of the firelight, but one could have sworn there appeared to be a reddish glow within his eyes.

The monk, however, merely raised a hand. _“Peace, my apprentice. Let him finish.”_

“B-...believe me, if simple mercenaries could stop her, they surely would have by now. The Countess has clearly made a pact with... _something._ Not unlike Junkenstein did with the Witch of the Wilds and her undead servants. She has held this land in a deathgrip for centuries now; she terrorized my father, and his father before that, going back generations. We cannot keep living like this, soon there will be none of us left.”

Both of them (or the swordsman at least; given the monk had none) raised eyebrows as they beheld the number of the tinker’s children standing behind him that had accompanied him to their camp.

The tinker merely plowed on. “We believed that...you might have some knowledge of a similar someone...or...something...that could stop her once and for all.”

For several moments, neither of them spoke, but they did appear to exchange a very long and indescribable look before turning their attention back to the man.

Then:

“...Very well. We may indeed be able to help you.”

_“Yes. Of course, there is always a price involved-…”_

“I admit we do not have much, after having been at Countess LaCroix’s mercy for so long, but I’m sure we could scrape some sort of funds together-”

Again, the monk merely raises a hand.

_“That will be unnecessary. Besides, when making such deals with the forces of the unknown, the price is not something as simple as...money, exactly.”_

The tinker glanced nervously at the ring of staring eye orbs that float around the monk’s neck like a grim eldritch necklace. Where before they had been twitching and looking in all directions; unsettling as that was to begin with; now every last one had focused in directly on him.

One of the man’s children, a daughter who towered over him and who bore the markings (and by markings; one mostly meant streaks of soot) of a blacksmith stepped forward then.

“Whatever the cost, we will pay it. It is surely better than suffering like this. The Countess must pay for her crimes!”

It was not possible to be seen on the automaton’s face, but his tone *implied* an amused smile, at least. _“How very...quaint. You do not know much about the costs of things like this. But, I can understand why you would say that.”_

He waves a hand at the swordsman, who quickly rises and sheaths his sword; before stepping away to disappear into a nearby tent set back in the shadows a ways from the fire.

Then, gesturing for the tinker and the rest of the townsfolk to leave, he resumes the same meditative pose as he had before.

_“Now. Depart, and return to this place at the same time tomorrow night. Bring a token of some kind from the one you wish for us to deal with. You will have your solution then.”_

The ring of eyes still stared, transfixed.

_“In the meantime...my apprentice and I must prepare.”_

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

If only a small crowd had managed to work up the courage to go to the wanderers’ camp the previous night; then it was a testament to their own when the tinker and his blacksmith daughter were the only ones who showed up on the next one.

Much had been changed since they were there last - the tent and whatever supplies the duo kept with them had been moved back even further into the dark and the small campfire built up to the massive blaze of a bonfire.

...there was evidence of some kind of bloodshed, too, darkened and drying against the fire-lit grass; a bowlful of it being kept near the fire, but whether animal or...other...it was not clear.

One could only hope it was spilled solely because it was desperately necessary for the ritual.

The monk; calm and serene as ever; merely extended a hand.

_“Are we ready to begin?”_

The tinker stepped forward then, pressing something into the machine’s palm.

A sleek bullet; magnificently crafted of a fine silver that gleamed bright as it caught the moon and firelight alike.

“One of her rounds.” He explained. “We pried that out of the skull of a bounty hunter that we attempted to hire to deal with the Countess. As you can imagine, since she is still around and he is not...it did not end well.”

The young smith crossed her arms, her voice rising high with her clear fury.

“Tell them the rest! Like how the man was rumored to be a werewolf, so we had hoped he would have an advantage over her when it came to hunting her down. How we spent three days listening to howling and hoofbeats in the woods, before his body was sent back draped across one of her damned horses. How he was drained of blood and left with a note regretting that she could not take his head for one of her trophies, as those of werebeast blood apparently transform back into men upon death!”

The older man hissed through his teeth, waving a hand to try and silence her. “Daughter, hush! Forgive her, she has only heard the stories that the other townspeople have stirred up in their fear, we didn’t actually-”

“No, papa! I will not stay silent! They deserve to know what kind of monster they are dealing with and what we have suffered under for so long!”

A full-blown squabble broke out between the two as there was an an angry exchange of words in their native language. However, as per usual, it was silenced by a gesture from the monk, before his attention went back to the bullet; turning it this way and that between his fingers as he peered at it intently.

“Well?! Will it work or not?” The girl snapped impatiently, earning another glare from her father.

_“Yes. Yes, this will be acceptable.”_

The monk proceeds to dip the bullet into the bowl of blood before casting it into the bonfire; followed by a handful of some kind of powder from a pouch at the chain belt he wore.

The normal red of the flames roared up into an unearthly eldritch shade of green; a ravenous beast awoken from its slumber - causing both of the other two to take a wary step backwards.

A low chanting began to fill the air - this was no tongue any of them recognized, but something darker and far older in mechanical monotone. As the monk lifts his face and hands skyward; so too do the ring of eye spheres rise - starting to glow and flash runic symbols in time with the chant.

Whatever bravado either of them had managed to muster; it evaporated as the hideous chanting rose in volume; the atmosphere surrounding them seeming to crackle with a dark, palpable energy. The orbs spun faster and faster until they became a glowing blur, and strange shapes seemed visible within the twisting green flames - hideous and snarling faces of things not of this world.

The tinker tried not to stammer as he addressed the swordsman; who merely watched the whole scene calmly. “Wh-...what is this witchcraft? What exactly is he doing?”

“He is performing a summoning. You asked for something to deal with your problem, that is what you are being brought.”

“Summoning...what, exactly?”

For the first time since the ritual began, indeed, for the first time in anyone’s memory, the corner of the swordsman’s mouth twitched slightly in a very faint smirk.

“A more cruel, heartless, and cold-blooded monster than even your tyrant.”

The green fire suddenly erupted skyward; a twisting pillar of flame that sparked with stormy branches of lightning that shot higher and higher until they seemed to reach the dark clouds of the sky itself...then with a shattering crack, they coalesced into a single bolt that crashed back down to the earth.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

An eerie silence fell over the scene, thick and oppressive; as if trying to fill the space that the massive thunderbolt had split the air with.

The chanting had stopped. The flames extinguished. Not a stirring of man or beast broke the quiet.

Not even a word from the father and child, knocked back to the ground by the bolt’s impact. Instead they sat quaking and clinging to each other as they beheld the form that now stood in the remains of where the fire had been.

At first glance, it looked like a man; a simple man in a curious white-and-blood-red outfit that looked like something from the swordsman’s homeland in the east; a matching-colored bow and quiver of arrows strapped to his back.

But it wasn’t a man. At least, not anymore.

Its skin was as dark a gray as the ashes surrounding it; the shoulder and arm its outfit bared tattooed with the red and black face of a leering demon. Under the raven hair kept pulled back with a silver scarf...a pair of small pointed horns curved upward from its forehead.

When it opened its eyes, they glowed an unholy and pupilless white.

The gray-skinned demon took a moment to look around at his surroundings before his gaze fell on the two terrified villagers, and he sneered, fangs flashing brightly in the moonlight.

It was the final straw for them. The tinker and his daughter detangled themselves from each other and ran off without so much as glancing back at the camp.

He chuckled to himself as he watched them flee; before the swordsman cleared his throat for attention, and he wheeled around; eyes narrowing sharply.

Mock amusement laces every word of his dark voice.

“Well, well, well...how long has it been?”

Ice was warmer than the swordsman’s stare.

“Hello... _brother.”_

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

Neither one spoke to each other, preferring instead to glare each other down.

In the end, though, it is the demon who breaks the frosty tension by jerking his head towards the monk to address him.

“I can only assume you did not summon me just for a family reunion.”

_“Do we ever? No. There is a task for you.”_

He snorts. “Of course. Find yourself another errand boy.”

_“You are aware you have no choice in the matter, yes?”_

“Of course he knows that, but you know that he likes to pretend otherwise, master.”

“How dare you speak to me like that, you-!”

_“May I continue?”_

The archer’s eyes narrow, but he snaps his mouth shut, barely-restrained contempt for his brother etched into his features.

_“Thank you. Now. The people of this land are beset by a woman whose soul is tainted and stained with blood not unlike yours. They would be quite grateful if you did something about her.”_

“...and they are so desperate they thought *I* would be their best option, did they? What, was their offered pay for you two not acceptably outrageous enough?”

_“Actually, it was your brother’s suggestion that you be put to this task. I merely agreed with him as this woman and I have...history._

He lets out a haughty laugh. “Ha! History, hm? I did not think that was physically possible with your kind-”

The edge of anger in the monk’s tone says everything his face cannot. _“By ‘history’ I mean she is the one who killed my master. And while it was quite some time ago, it still would not entirely displease me to see her taken down for that."_

Here the swordsman spoke up once more. “Your skill with a bow can surely match hers with a gun. Hunt her down and kill her. Provided you still can...since you did fail the last time you tried to murder someone, after all.”

The demon archer snarls and attempts to fling himself at his brother, but is stopped by some kind of invisible binding - no doubt some part of the magic that summoned him. All he can really do is slam his fists in a rage against the barrier.

“You are a coward! A _coward!_ A failure who dishonored our family name!”

“*I’m* the failure? You forget, brother, at least I am still alive and free to go where I please...and not bound to perform simple tasks like some kind of leashed animal.”

“The only thing that ensured your survival is that father always showed you favor you did not deserve!”

“And it’s hard to say which of us he’d be more disappointed by if our father could see us now.”

“You will get yours in time, brother. I guarantee it.”

With an almost mocking ‘shoo’ motion, the swordsman gestures for the demon to leave.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure I will. Now go. The blood moon rises tomorrow, and then she will be on the move.”

With one final glare and another flashburst of eldritch fire, the demon was gone.

The monk exhaled a deep sigh, before cocking his head towards his apprentice. _“Must you insist on goading him every time he is brought here?”_

“He is the one who let his fury and pain get the better of him. He is the only one responsible for what he has become. Perhaps if he had more discipline, then he would not have become the monster that he is.”

_“You are not wrong, but still. It all seems unnecessarily...theatrical.”_

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

Just as foretold, the moon was fat and red the very next night - a bulging, bloodshot eye that gazed balefully over the the woods and mires that surrounded the lake and the Chateau Guillard.

The Countess had always found the light of the blood moon beautiful and terrible. Like wandering through the blighted realm of Hell itself - one half-expected to see devils reveling between the darkened claws of leaveless trees in the dusky light.

But while there were no imps scampering about (at least none that she could see as she rode her horse along the trail), there was definitely... _something_...afoot in her woods tonight.

Something profane.

She would not be surprised that the townsfolk would have attempted to find something to take her out, _again,_ though she was disappointed that they did not seem to have learned their lesson from the dozens of previous failures.

Really now, it was almost tiresome at this point. How many times must she slay their champion and send their dessicated corpse back to them before they got the message?

Still...something felt different about this time. And one did not live as long as she had by being careless.

With a gentle tug of the reins, the Countess slows the massive black horse she’s mounted on. Her keenly enhanced senses trying to detect whatever it was.

All that could be heard was the rattling of the few dead leaves not yet fallen from some of the trees as the late autumn wind stirred them, and the soft snorting of her steed as it pawed at the chill ground.

Was she mistaken? Perhaps the locals really had given up, and she was only being paranoid-...

Suddenly, her horse pitched forward with a scream, and only the otherworldly reflexes honed through the decades saved her from being plummeted into the mud and crushed beneath its body as she leapt for the branch of a nearby tree.

The animal was dead even before it hit the ground, a cluster of arrows protruding from its chest. She had hardly a moment to process this before another whistled through the air in her direction.

She only just avoided being skewered by it as it embedded itself into the trunk of the tree at her back. Even so, the point grazed her cheek, and a faint trickle of thin blood began to drip down her pale cheek.

A broad smirk broke the Countess’ face then, as she drew her rifle from where it had been slung across her back.

_Finally._

Anyone else might have felt fear, or fury. Normal reactions to brushing so close with death. But she’d stopped feeling those a long time ago. As hunts became easy and dull. As she no longer had anything that was truly a challenge for her skills, or even death to fear.

No. Instead, what she felt was _elation._

After all these years, they had found an adversary who just might be worth her time. And here she thought tonight would be almost dreadfully routine.

From her belt, she grabs a small fluid-filled vial; loading it into the clockwork launcher strapped to her wrist. Sending it sailing before it comes to a rest hidden near the fallen horse’s body.

Whoever - or whatever - it was that thought they could try and hunt her, would find the toxic mixture a nasty surprise if they were not prepared.

No new arrows came towards her in the moment - no doubt her pursuer thought she could not predict where their attacks were coming from if they changed their position.

But these were her woods. She knew this land better than even the oldest residents of Annecy - living, and otherwise.

The Countess peered through her scope, scanning the trees; scanning the ground, even checking the skies.

A lesson learned from a former foe - some time go, she had slain a sniper renowned as the greatest from her homeland in the deserts of the southeast. Her daughter; out for revenge, had performed some ritual with the aid of a mad occultist to bind her spirit to a suit of enchanted, flying armor. It had flitted about with an impossible lightness through the sky; firing mystical blasts that damaged her beloved manor as it did - trying to flush her out of its safety.

It had also plummeted with just a single shot to where its heart would have been, and now lay rusting and in pieces at the bottom of her lake.

It was unlikely that she was up against such an enemy again, but it was better safe than sorry.

There’s the soft hiss of escaping gas as her trap is sprung, and she quickly turns to aim her rifle into the cloud of poison; preparing to fire at the first thing that stumbles out of it.

But she sees no stumbling figure. Instead, a voice rings out - definitely male, and that accent definitely not French.

“A clever trick. But. You cannot kill what is already dead.”

She doesn’t bother to try and decipher this cryptic statement - she fires a shot straight at the voice’s direction. He shouldn’t have tried to taunt her - now, she knew where he was.

A shadowy form moves quickly, far too quickly to be human, darting between the trees. The Countess continues to take shots at it - trying to predict and follow its movements, to cut it off before it can get away - but it always seems to dodge at the last second. Once, she could even swear that its form warped *around* the bullet, rippling from the shockwave in the air surrounding the deadly projectile.

This was ridiculous - no one was her equal in the art of the hunt. She never missed - not even against the more mystical dangers of this world. The one-armed wolfman and the sniper’s daughter that counted among her many victims were testaments to that.

_What exactly was he?_

At the point she knows she has to reload, that’s when the shooting starts again. He had clearly waited for his opening. Once more it is only her vampiric speed, and the grappling line courtesy of her trusty wrist-launcher that saves her.

Splinters fly as arrows embed themselves in wood with audible knocks; cloth flutters as one rips off one of the tails on her hunting jacket; another tearing her belt of vials off her hip. Close calls, to be sure, but her timing is sure and saves herself from them all as she nimbly leaps from branch to branch.

**_SNAP._ **

All, that is, except the one that counts.

Her gold eyes go wide as she sees the length of cable whip past her; realizes she’s falling short of the next branch she was swinging toward.

Whatever he was...her opponent was no fool.

The Countess hits the ground and rolls gracelessly; coming to a stop against a long-rotten tree stump.

The wind’s been knocked out of her, and she has to use the stump to start pulling herself back up. She just needs to find her rifle, wherever it landed; find it and she would end this quickly and take his wretched head as another trophy, and then she would make those worthless little cattle in the village pay for their _insolence_ , would fill her wine racks and kegs with their lifeblood and drink herself bloated on their wretched-

It’s the sound of a bowstring being pulled back and a fresh arrow being nocked that stills her, and slowly, very slowly, she turns to behold her pursuer for the first time.

A wry smirk was playing at the demon’s lips (for what else could he be, with horns like those?), as he holds the drawn arrow on her. As much as she must look a sight; muddied and battered from her flight through the forest; his curious attire (that off-the-shoulder number DEFINITELY wasn’t French) was still a spotless white that seemed almost luminous in the moonlight.

Almost as luminous as his bright, featureless eyes that stared her down.

“And thus the so-called predator becomes the prey. I confess myself disappointed - the way they went on about you, I had expected I would need to expend actual effort.”

She merely glares. “Who are you?”

“Does it matter? What matters is your end is at hand.”

His shot is initially aimed between her eyes, but perhaps it is the knowledge of what she is that makes the archer pause; instead shifting his angle downwards so that the shining flint of the arrowhead was pointed to her chest instead - right over her heart, and the one guaranteed way to slay a vampire.

And it is that one small adjustment that would be his undoing.

With a lightning speed she’s back up on her feet and trying to grab for the bow. He releases his grip on the string in his surprise, and the shot goes wild and upward; the arrow vanishing somewhere into the canopy above them.

She digs the nails of one hand into his wrist and twists roughly. He lets out a hiss as he’s forced to drop the weapon, and she proceeds to fling it away somewhere into the dark.

She’s strong - stronger than he expected. He’s quick to recover, though, as he pries her fingers off of him and shoves her back roughly.

“Insolent cur!” He snarls it at her.

“Damned mongrel!” She spits right back.

True to insult, they launch themselves at each other like rabid hounds; exchanging rapid blows that would have put lesser beings down, but which neither seems to properly feel. Brutal hits capable of cracking bones leaving mere bruises on the inhuman duo.

There’s a point where he grabs hold of a fistful of her long dark hair; callously ignoring her yell of pain as he uses it as leverage to toss her back to the ground. As she goes down again, though; the Countess grabs hold of the red belt that his sake jug is attached and yanks hard, pulling him off balance and bringing him down with her.

Damp, dead leaves stick to the two of them as they go rolling across the ground. The night had been frosty, but the two of them practically boiled the air with their steaming fury.

When they finally come to a stop, he’s on top of her, and his hands are around her neck; calloused fingers squeezing hard.

Blackness edged into her vision as she gasped against the pressure on her throat. She claws at his hands to make him release her, but to no avail; he hardly seemed to feel it at all. It would not kill her - she didn’t need to breathe to live anymore - but it could certainly knock her unconscious. And then she WOULD be dead; just as soon as he got his hands back on his discarded bow.

A muscle memory from what seems like another life; one that had once been full of warmth instead of cold indifferent death; it takes over as a long leg strikes upward in a kick; the heel of her riding boot connecting just under his jaw and sending him sprawling backwards off of her.

As she rolls back onto her hands and knees; trying to catch her breath, she sees a glint in the corner of her eye - the barrel of her rifle, peeking from under a thicket. Where it must have slid when the both of them went down kicking and flailing into the leafmold.

The world blurred and spiraled violently as she staggered to her feet, and for a moment, she could see more than one moon; a starved beast’s staring eyes waiting for one of them to fall so it could feast. But she manages to keep her footing, and she scrambles for the thicket, and the gun.

He’s still reeling from the kick that knocked him off her, but he has to admit...there’s something to be admired in her tenacity. Most prey would have given in to their fate by now. Yet here she was, still fighting. Not just trying to survive and escape him, but trying to best him and kill him like he had killed so many others.

He can already see the direction she’s heading, the determination on her face, what she must be going for. While his bow was still lost in the murk behind them.

She’d have made an excellent assassin back home. A shame things had to be this way.

With that same strange shadowstepping that he had used to escape her gunshots before, he easily closes the distance between them, arms suddenly around her and yanking her back against him, as he buries his own impressive teeth into her neck.

She yells as she feels the fangs pierce her skin, sinking deep into the artery. Trying to bleed her out.

But just as he said before - you could not kill that which was already dead.

The blood that does flow is minimal and thin; barely more than what came from the graze on her cheek. She does not weaken. In fact, she grows even more enraged than she thought was already possible.

The audacity of him, to bite and try and drain her? Her?! Just who did he think he was?!

Rearing back with head and elbow, she gets him good in the face, and she can hear the snap of something colliding with the unique riding helmet she wore; something breaking. She hoped it was his damn nose.

It’s enough to make him release her, though, a stream of profanity streaming from his lips - though whether the tongue was infernal or native, she could not say.

As soon as her trusted hunting rifle is back in her hands, the Countess wheels around with a dancer’s grace; side-swiping his legs out from under him to put him on his back.

The demon drops with an undignified grunt, and she then plants a foot in the middle of his chest to keep him down.

“Who sent you?!” She barks as she points the gun in his face.

At some point in their struggle, he lost the silver scarf keeping his hair tied, and those sinister eyes glare at her through a tangled cascade of long black hair. Beneath her bootheel, his broad chest is heaving, and he merely scoffs at her; ignoring her question entirely.

“You broke off one of my horns, you vile bitch.”

Her boot is relocated to his throat; ignoring the strangled noise he makes as she does.

“Now. Who. Sent. You?” The Countess punctuates each word with a rough jab of the barrel into his temple. Right below the stump where said horn once was.

He seems quite determined to remain tight-lipped, at least, until she pulls the hammer back on the rifle.

“Fine!” The demon all but spits the word. “If you really must know...it was my wretched brother and his unholy sensei. They are the ones who sent me to kill you. I have no doubt he will be amused by my failure, once again.”

Confusion narrows the huntress’ eyes as she regards this information suspiciously.

“I have lived in Annecy all my life - and I can assure you I do mean *all* my life and I cannot claim to have known anything that would associate with the likes of you. If you are lying-”

“Do not accuse me! They are a swordsman and a monk. They do not hail from here, that much should be obvious.”

“Wait, a monk, you say? One with…” She gestures vaguely, a hand going in front of her face and fingers wiggling in a clear pantomime of tentacles. “...oui?”

The corner of his mouth twitches as he lets out a hum of amusement.

“Hm. The very same.”

The Countess doesn’t relax her grip, but she does not make any sudden moves to end him, either, as the gears turn within her head.

“Then perhaps you are telling the truth. Still, I have never dealt with them personally. I do not feed on...clockworks. So there would be no reason for them to want me dead. But that does not mean the actual locals did not employ their services...”

“That is what I was told. And for what it is worth, my brother is still human. Mostly.”

“Excluding the parts of him that clearly aren’t.” A knowing little smile graces her scarlet lips. “The way you speak of him with such contempt...was that your handiwork, cher?”

Now it was his turn to regard her with suspicion.

“If you are trying to mesmerize me just to make an exotic meal out of me, I can assure you, what runs in my veins now doesn’t quite qualify as blood anymore. I doubt you would enjoy it.”

“You would be surprised...besides. If I wanted to do that, I would have as soon as we laid eyes on each other. But, those eyes of yours, cher, are quite impenetrable to even my wills.”

The boot is removed from his neck, and seeing the opportunity, he slowly rises back to his feet, though he does not relax.

Then again, given the gun is still aimed at him, one couldn’t blame him.

“You bested me. Why not pull the trigger?”

“I will not deny, you certainly deserve it for how you ruined my favorite coat and killed my horse.”

“...the horse was not your favorite?”

She ignores that. “But if I were to kill you, I would lose the greatest foe I have fought with in decades.”

The Countess lowers her weapon and approaches him in slow, measured steps. He goes tense as he feels her fingertips glide across his bare shoulder as she circles around him - even through her gloves, her touch was like ice.

Those fangs prick at his ear as she leans in with a seductive whisper. “Surely you felt it too. You felt _alive_ , pursuing me.”

The demon growls as he represses a shudder...but he does not move away.

“Hmph. Flattery will get you everywhere, you know.”

“That is why most people do it, cher. But this is no mere flattery. It has been so long since I have encountered someone who can match me in skill...can you not say the same?”

“I will...admit, it was indeed a refreshing change of pace, fighting someone who actually proved a challenge...”

“How long has it been? How long since you chased something down that actually put up a good fight? Something that did not simply die cowering and screaming?”

There’s a prickling energy that seems to run up his tattooed arm at her words.

A feeling he had not felt in a very long time.

And yet, still he hesitates. As the energy also brought to mind a torrent of maddening eyes and terrifying whisper-filled void. “You have a point - but even if I desired it, I would still be bound-”

Ah, but she had an answer for that too. “What is it that actually keeps you tied to them like a dog to its master? How long have they been using you to clean up messes for them? Someone of your strength deserves better.”

Compared to her cold, death-like touch, he was practically on fire. The Countess had to resist leaning her body into it. She hadn’t been able to feel warmth like that in so long...not since the sun had become another thing that made her withdraw.

The prickling was a burn now, and he could hear a ravenous roaring inside his head that drove away the visions of oblivion with blazing fire.

“And you deserve not a master at your side...but an equal.”

The demon pulls away from her then, and she prepares herself for another fight. But he merely stands there, apparently deep in thought.

Was it just her, or did she see something...serpent like...coiling around his tattooed arm?

For the longest time, there’s no sound but the quiet stir of the forest surrounding them, as the demon was clearly deep in thought.

His disgrace had led to his binding at the whims of that accursed monk his brother trailed after like a fawning puppy. While his most faithful and true companions, the ones who would have protected him from all threats in the world beyond, and who had protected him even as he was damned for the sins he’d committed; they had been muzzled and forced into what he had been sure was an eternal sleep.

After that, he had to obey. He had to do *their* bidding, lest the monk leave him to be torn apart by that which he so gladly worshipped.

What kind of fool would willingly follow such horrors?

The archer did not know. But obey he did, out of fear of what would happen if he didn’t. And when he was not being forced to fulfill duties for them, he was desperately trying to break the seal.

Yet this woman...a killer, a monster, twisted just like he was...she had woken his protectors up with her own promises. Yet she did not seem to serve any master but herself.

Was there something worse out there that she had allied herself to? Or was her will just that strong?

He could feel them stir within him; twisting, growling. Angry at having been bound so long. They longed for revenge, to shed blood themselves.

They were...wary, of her. But they clearly did not feel threatened by her.

He watches the faint red glow of one as it twists briefly around his arm, and he flexes his clawed fingers slightly.

_Soon. I promise._

Finally, the demon turns back to look at her.

“Let us say I agree to your offer. If we are, as you say, equals, what would you have us do?”

The grin that she bears is positively *feral,* and if he didn’t know any better, he could swear there was a pair of approving growls in the back of his mind.

“Well first...I think we should do something to thank our friends for bringing us together, don’t you?”

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

In the Chateau’s banquet hall, once again, cold yellow eyes sat the head of the table.

The Countess had brought out her best finery for this occasion. Gleaming tableware and the richest of foods prepared upon them. An embroidered tablecloth that hid the worst of the wooden table’s scarring.

It had been an exhausting effort, even for someone of her means, but it was all worth it. What kind of hostess would she be if she did not offer only the best for her guests?

Yes, for the first time in years, the Chateau Guillard had guests. Every seat was filled on both sides of the table. Before dawn drove her back to safety in shadow, she had presented the residents of the little hamlet with an invitation, pinned to the door of their forsaken church, the priest having been driven away long ago.

(Or at least, that’s what she had led them to think. There was always room for serving cattle in her home, and the father had been a fantastic chef as well as providing a rather delicious vintage for her wine cellar once she’d had him under her control. What, did they think actually prepared all this food herself? _Please_.)

She had expected them to refuse, to flee, or even to perhaps try gathering up into a mob to finally confront her themselves. But...they seemed almost resigned, when they were welcomed in that evening.

Perhaps her survival, after they had gone to such desperate lengths to do away with her, had finally broken their spirit.

None spoke, none would touch the food or drink, none would even dare look in her direction.

All except the daughter of the tinker, the blacksmith girl, who glared at her with an indignantly righteous fury that was almost...cute.

Her own plate sat untouched, but...that was normal, for her. The wine that flowed from the bottle beside her was her true meal.

Or at least, her appetizer, for the meal to come.

The Countess’ eyes glimmered as she surveyed them all. “Why such a somber mood? I invited you all into my home, to share a meal and celebrate with me…yet you are all moping as if someone has passed.”

She gave a small smile, the points of her fangs just peeking out. “And as I am sure you are all well aware of exactly what I am by now. You do realize how futile poisoning you all would be, oui?”

The tinker fiddled with his cutlery. His beard. Fiddled with just about anything to avoid having to address her. Ah yes, she remembered him. Obnoxious little man, quite gifted with machinery, yet bred like a rabbit. His daughter had run off for a while in hopes of being a squire for the Lord of Adlersbrunn, but had to be sent back when that raving madman Junkenstein was exacting his mayhem upon them over there.

“Eh...it’s-...it’s not that we are not grateful, it’s just...we don’t see much to celebrate, Countess.”

That same daughter who was still glaring her down, as if the look would eventually kill her. Even though far better men and women than her had tried, and failed miserably.

How adorable.

“No?” She actually gives a small chuckle at that, and several people flinched like she’d personally thrown her wine in their faces. “Strange. I find there is a great deal to celebrate. In fact…”

The Countess stands, raising her glass.

“A toast. To a long and prosperous partnership.”

There’s a gust that suddenly blows through the room; roaring loud enough fit to rattle the rafters, and the fire that had been burning in the grate behind her was snuffed out instantly, as were any other light sources in the room.

The curtains that had been drawn over the massive bay windows and blocking the view of the lake; they flew open suddenly to bathe the darkened banquet hall in cold moonlight.

And to reveal the demon standing before them, a pair of glowing red dragons twisting and snapping by his sides.

He may have had a horn missing since he’d been seen last, but it was still the same gray-skinned man, bearing the same demonic tattoo covering his shoulder and arm.

Compared to his companions, straining and raring to be released, the demon’s expression was completely calm. Waiting for something.

The tinker and his daughter recognized the figure from the night they’d witnessed his summoning, and they were the first to rise; chairs scraping and falling to the floor as they tried to flee; only to find the hall’s doors locked and barricaded. The other townsfolk seemed transfixed; too frozen with horror to do anything but stare.

_“À votre santé.”_

The dragons lunged.

And the roaring that followed was not the wind.

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

The banquet hall had been the scene of a grand feast, but not for its victims whose blood and bodies practically redecorated the room in a fresh coat of carnage.

Following the trail of gore and chaos that led out from it took one all the way to a nearby parlor where the two beasts responsible sat licking claws and lips clean.

Not unlike the glutted dragons that were curled up together in front of the fire they’d started.

The Countess curled her form into the demon, gladly leeching the heat from his broad frame as she kissed him fervently. The thrill of seeing so many of her enemies slain at once...she could not help but reward him for it.

She could taste the blood on his fangs, and it was enough to make her head swim drunkenly with excitement; far better than any wine she’d ever partaken of. If this kept up, she might even feel her heart beat and flutter again.

“ _Magnifique_ , cher.” She practically crooned. “Your...pets-?”

“Mm. They are more like...guardians.”

“Well, regardless, they did such a good job. Which means it will be easy, cleaning up the stragglers who did not attend our little soiree.”

His rough fingers trace their way along the delicate lines of her jaw as he cups her face. “And you are certain they will not hear of this and run?”

She rests one of her hands over his own, turning her head to press a kiss into his palm. “Let them run...they will be found, in the end. It is only sporting to give them a head start, after all. In the meantime...”

She grabbed hold of the other sleeve of the demon’s outfit, yanking it off roughly as she trailed teasing nips along his exposed neck; enjoying the way he growls and tightens his grip on her. “...there is more celebrating I have planned for us, cher.”

= o = o = o = o = o = o =

As screams and snarls echoed into the night, the master and student stood on the shore across the lake, watching the Chateau intently as the sounds of slaughter reached even them.

“I believe we have overstayed our welcome here, and it is time to move on, Master.”

The monk’s face was as impassive as ever. _“Yes...how unfortunate that things should have come to this. But I did warn them that dealing with the dark forces came with a price, did I not?”_

“You did indeed. A pity for them that they did not listen. They sought an end to their suffering. But I fear it has only just begun.”

_“Well. If one wishes to argue semantics, this particular group’s suffering has ended. But for others...yes. Yes, it has only just begun. How...unfortunate.”_

The two of them each collects a pack from the pebbled ground; the swordsman slinging his over his shoulder as two of them began walking (or floating, rather, in the monk’s case) through the woods.

By the time anyone realized, they would be long gone. Perhaps they would go south this time. The winter was coming, and warmer climes would be much more welcome than the bitter snow.

“You know, I did not expect you would be so...calm about this. I mean, surely you have always wanted revenge upon her for what she did to your master? Why then, let my brother go and let her live?”

_“I did indeed wish for her end...but after much reflection, I came to realize something.”_

“And what is that?”

_“Think of it this way, my student. Can you say there is a greater punishment for both her and your brother than to be subject to each other for all eternity?”_

The swordsman casts a final look back towards the Chateau.

Even from here, he can still see the splashes of red against the windows shining in the light of the now-waning moon.

“Hard to say. Certainly it’s a punishment for everyone else around them.”

**Author's Note:**

> No, I haven't forgotten IWTKY, I just really wanted to get this one-shot done first, the problem is I can't seem to write a one-shot that isn't at least 10,000 words minimum. Will I ever learn?
> 
> (The answer is probably not, no.)
> 
> SO YEAH WHO'S READY FOR THE ARCHIVES/STORM'S RISING EVENT THIS YEAR?


End file.
